If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?”
– Albert Einstein
I love that quote.
Let’s face it; none of us really know what we’re doing. Life is research. That’s what makes it so perfect. It’s a jumbled imperfect mess of emotions and desires and strangeness. Its love, pain, and confusion and needs, uncertainty, fear and happiness and complexities that you can’t always put words to.
That’s one I’m particularly bad at; putting words to what I feel. Articulating what goes on in my head is not the simplest thing and if it’s attached to an emotion, I’m doomed. I get too wordy and people most likely get irked and move on.
So how then, am I planning on becoming an author? I suppose it’s one of those ever conflicting contradictions I play home to. I don’t have that problem with my writing. It all just comes to me, but then again that’s because what I’m writing isn’t about me, isn’t it?
Jumping around – because I’m quite indecisive today… I’ve been told that I should tell people what’s going on with me, that people want to know how my writing is going and what else is going on in my slice of life. Well, okey dokey, I suppose I could do that. I’ll stick to what’s new.